My Troubles with Adelaide
by Morning Dew
Summary: Spot Conlon assumes charge over St. Adelaide's Home for Girls after its leader falls ill. Everything and anything that could possibly go wrong promptly does. A territory war, missing children, and a budding romance just to name a few. Only in Brooklyn...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, _Newsies_. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words _are_ censored.

**Author's Note: **The name of the main character in this story, who is of Pacific Islander descent, is pronounced: KEEL-Lee. If you have trouble with it, just think "Kelly", but with a long 'E' in the first syllable.

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**My Troubles with Adelaide **

The newborn rumors were true. New York's most notorious newsboy, the foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, eighteen-year-old Spot Conlon, had at long last met his match. Under the nauseating rays of a July sun, his fifty-something newsies surrounded him in a tight swarm, the older ones hooting with laughter as they pointed and pushed and cracked whatever jokes their wit afforded them. It wasn't every day they could behave so blithely and not suffer the consequences. With Spot this preoccupied, though, they could get away with acting their age. Those cursed with shorter heights, in the midst of this tomfoolery, attempted to weave through the growing crowd, hoping for a better view of the spectacle. When this proved impossible for some, they simply dragged crates over from the docks, climbed upon them, and strained to see over a dozen heads of flea-ridden hair.

It was, after all, a sight not to be missed. The leader of Brooklyn's newsboys was at his wit's end, struggling with a dame who simply wouldn't budge. Locks of sweat-drenched dirty blonde hair fell across his forehead, tangling with the lashes of his angry, cobalt eyes. He had stripped down to a white beater earlier in the brawl, and his faded red suspenders now dangled freely at his legs' sides. A gold-tipped black cane, threaded through a single belt loop, moved from side to side at his back whenever he jerked his body around, and any second now, he planned on pulling it forth to clout his opponent.

For the time being, he needed both hands. They gripped one end of his grey bowler hat so tightly, his knuckles were as pale as chalk. The other end was in the drooling mouth of his worst nightmare, and current nemesis: a ninety-pound American Bulldog. Adelaide; respectively named after the lodging house over which she presided as mascot. For the past ten minutes, she and Spot had been standing eye to eye, neither willing to submit to the other's whims.

Adelaide, fangs bared and ears flattened against her skull, continuously yanked at the hat, hoping to tire out its owner. She was a stocky but compact dog, almost two feet tall at the withers, and entirely muscle. White with large brown patches, one of which dotted an eye, she could've been mistaken as a sweetheart. Those who witnessed Spot's only hat tear in half that afternoon knew better.

Adelaide, delighted with her success, beat her tail to and fro as a jagged chunk of fabric hung from her mouth. Spot watched on, not amused. His arms, defined from years of hard work, were now aching in exhaustion. He rubbed one tanned bicep and winced at how it throbbed. _Damn dog_. He looked down at his calloused and ink-stained hands, fingers still clutching part of his former hat, a part now rendered worthless. It wasn't the only damage done him this afternoon, either. His pride had been trampled over, as well, by the dirty paws of this _damn aggravating mutt_.

His newsies were still carrying on, louder than ever, oblivious to their leader's budding temper. It took a while, but one by one, as they realized his menacing glare was upon them, they elbowed hooting neighbors or smacked those miming Spot's tug-of-war defeat. Their laughter died at the back of their throats. They evolved from teenaged street-rats to soldiers before their dictator. They imitated his silence, diverted their eyes, and prayed to God lodging prices wouldn't rise. Satisfied with their obedience, Spot returned his attention to Adelaide. He hurled his half of the hat at the Bulldog—she dodged the toss and bolted off down the docks—and then he turned to snatch his shirt from the ground. Without any word to his regiment, he made for the Brooklyn Lodging House, uttering nothing but profanities with every step.

"I f-cking hate your damn dog, Keile."

Keile was leaning against a splintered pillar of the lodging house, basking in the cool shade it cast upon her. Arms crossed, she tilted her head back just slightly to regard Spot from under the bill of her cap. Her teeth clung to her chapped bottom lip, lest she, too, indulge in the amusement of Adelaide's antics. She was used to the dog's clownish behavior anyway; owning an American Bulldog was like purchasing a variety show for the next fifteen years of one's life.

"I'm sorry. I really am." She bit the inside of her cheek the moment she thought her lips would relax into a smirk. It took a few seconds to regain her composure, and then she continued. "Y'know how she gets, though. She adores you. It's like a game to her when you swat at her with your cane or hat." Her voice was hoarse, reduced virtually to a whisper. She sniffed, then, and dabbed at her nose with the handkerchief cradled within her palm.

Spot momentarily let the matter drop. His eyes now rested on Keile for the first time. "You all right?" When he received no reply, he shoved a palm against her forehead, and despite his findings, his voice remained monotone. "Ya burnin' up." He took her left wrist in his hand to check for a pulse; he wasn't sure what to look for, but he'd seen medics perform this routine check without end, and it therefore made him feel more authoritative.

Having her wrist encompassed between his index finger and thumb reminded him of Keile's lean figure. Her thinness wasn't necessarily as attractive as it was deathly. The girl was all bones, always had been. She needed more meat on her, but the meat refused to stay on. No matter what she downed at _Fiddler's_, be it even a tuna melt and cheeseburger in one meal (she had an awfully large appetite for someone so wiry), she remained skeleton-thin. Every article of clothing she owned fit baggy upon her frame. She wore skirts only because they added volume to her figure, but even they needed to be held in place with suspenders. Spot guessed Keile weighed no more than a hundred pounds. If he ever wanted to, he could easily toss her over his shoulder and carry his share of _Brooklyn Eagles_ at the same time. The girl, simply put, held little femininity about her. Unlike the majority of girls with whom Spot was acquainted, she lacked the coveted hour-glass figure, and the endowments with which it came. In other words, she was nearly as flat-chested as a ten year old boy. Of course, Spot would never say that—even a prince among paupers had his limits.

Still, there wasn't anything particularly eye-catching about Keile Fetuao. In a city of pretty Irish and Italian immigrants, she was a dark-tanned Polynesian outcast. Her sleek hair, long enough to caress her waist, was dark as the ink on a newsboys's paper. Today, it was tied back in a sloppy low bun, defiant strands sticking out every which way. Her eyes were just as dark. Bland. If it weren't for the long lashes framing them, they'd easily be missed, mistaken for pieces of coal. She never wore makeup, as she didn't like the feel of it, and her lips were ever chapped despite how many times she ran her tongue over them. All that aside, it was the freckles that did her in. There were hundreds all over her! Like colonies of ants maintaining constant patrol upon her skin. Her face was dotted, her arms, her legs, her stomach, her neck. Every last square inch of her was plagued with the tiny chocolate spots.

"Spot, what are you doing? Stop." She pulled her wrist away from him, and turned to blow her nose into the handkerchief.

"Ya look like death."

"Wow, thanks." She rolled her eyes, and stepped out of the shade, squinting against the sun to track down her dog. Adelaide was running up and down the docks, trying to decide whether or not she really wanted to jump into the river with the boys who had already done so. Her portion of Spot's hat was discarded alongside a pile of rope. "I'm sorry 'bout your hat. I seriously am. Once she gets a hold a' some'n, though, you're outta luck."

"Keile."

She turned to face Spot, and was met with that forceful gaze he'd mastered, the one that demanded an explanation of an unsuspecting soul, and heard one whether that soul intended on giving it or not. "Spot, I'm fine."

"No. You're not." He draped his shirt over his shoulders, and continued to watch her, eyes unmoving.

Keile swiped the cap from her head and fanned herself. Damn, it was hot. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down her face with sluggish progress. Her blouse was beginning to stick to her skin. "Okay, so I need a favor."

He crossed his arms, donning his prized 'I knew I was right' expression. It always stroked his ego when his suspicions proved correct. "What is it?"

"I've got a cold, this virus—hell, I don't know what it is. The point is, I obviously can't go to work sick. People don't appreciate you cleaning their house when you're spreading germs left and right at the same time." She brought the handkerchief to her nose to stifle a sneeze, waited a moment, and then continued. "The Sisters suggested I go to St. Paul's for—"

"What's the favor, Keile?" Among the many things Spot Conlon despised, one was a mouth that couldn't stop running. When someone bore news, he wanted the straightforward facts and nothing in excess.

"You're a royal pain, y'know that?" She glanced toward the East River again, and watched Adelaide paddle hard while her human companions laughed and splashed water her way. "I need you to run the Home while I'm gone, Spot."

He opened his mouth to say something, but promptly closed it. A brief moment passed before he spoke. "Aint the Sisters there to do that?"

"They only monitor the building from seven in the morning until five in the evening. They come in to clean, to cook, to walk the younger ones to and from school, to tutor, to counsel. Y'know, the motherly things. But at night, they return to the convent. With Adelaide as our security guard, it aint too bad, but even that's not enough. Tell you the truth, I've just been depending on that gun Cynic gave me—"

Spot rolled his eyes, mostly jealous the idea had come to Cynic before it had come to him.

"—but I aint leaving no gun into these girls' hands, either. We're in the middle of a clique war. Never a good thing to add weapons." A sneeze escaped her, so powerful it inflamed her lungs. She rubbed her chest with a fist and frowned.

_A clique war? What the hell was a clique war? _"So whaddya want me to do?"

"Check up on them at nights, I guess. You can even stay in the guest room now and then if ya 'on't wanna make the commute. Y'know, the usual. Keep 'em in line, break up arguments, keep the place safe."

Spot mulled the idea over. He didn't know any of the girls at Adelaide's outside of Keile. They mostly were domestic workers in the houses of the upper class, or seamstresses, or nannies, or toy-makers in factories where their smaller hands could put pieces together easily. As far as he knew, none of them worked the paper-peddling scene, which meant they were most likely a group of homely girls, devoid of a personality. He suspected they wouldn't even offer him conversation; if they did, he probably wouldn't return it. It would simply be one more lodging house to run, its population far smaller and uninviting. An afterthought.

He shrugged, leaning forward on his cane as both hands rested upon the gold top. "Sure. I'll do it. How 'ard could it be, right?"

Keile resisted the urge to glance his way, fearing the answer would be written all over her eyes. Instead, she continued watching Adelaide's swimming lesson, and offered a shrug of her own. "Right."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, _Newsies_. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words _are_ censored.

**Author's Note:** Many moons ago, a number of people replied to a casting call I had posted for this story. If you were among the ones whose character was accepted, and you're still among my readership today, please let me know! I'd still love to use your character!

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**My Troubles with Adelaide **

Spot always had been, and always would be, a man of few words. Tonight was no exception. In the main room of the Brooklyn Lodging House, he sat as a prince among thieves at a wobbly, O-shaped table, its splintered top laden with whiskey decanters, ash trays, and rusty pennies. Though an hour had elapsed since the time he'd taken his seat amongst these, the poker-players, he hadn't uttered a single syllable.

The main room was the most dimly-lit within the decrepit building Brooky's called home, with only two working lamp stands and plenty of mosquitoes dancing around the dull albeit warm bulbs. The place also maintained a most rancid stench. Sweat, body odor, alcohol, cigarette smoke, and the dead fish from the neighboring docks. It was a breeding ground for filth. You could find anything here, from blood stains on the hardwood floors to leftover sausages under the busted cushions of the room's only couch. There was no point even discussing the rat droppings by the fireplace, or the incessant leak from the ceiling closest to the fire escape.

More than this, though, it was the noise that could do you in. It was absolutely deafening. The conversations of close to five dozen street rats had a way of bordering cacophony. Especially when it was combined with the cat-and-mouse games of the runts, the piano playing and accompanying singing of the House's resident would-be musicians, and the rambunctious laughter of the teenaged whores who frequented the place in hopes of pocketing a newsboy's hard-earned pennies.

Spot scanned the room stoically. At eighteen, he was by far the eldest among his sordid brood, and truth be told, he hadn't the slightest clue why he still hung around. Eventually, it'd be time to grow up, to get a real job, to stop gallivanting about the borough like a demigod. This was child's play now. Even ever fanciful Jack Kelly had traded in his boyish cowboy hat and bandana for a time card at a well known factory in Manhattan. It's what awaited Spot, too, and he knew it.

_God, did he know it._ The very idea sometimes kept him awake at nights. On those nights, he'd stand at his private room's window and, with hands clasped behind his back, would survey the territory he'd one day have to renounce. The kingdom, rather.

"And then I says to the broad, 'Lady you's clearly mistakin'. See, this is _my_ pocket, attached to _my_ pants!"

Spot snapped from his thoughts. A cigarette hung idly from his thin lips as he glanced toward his left at tonight's storyteller. _Every night_'s storyteller: Lucas 'Runner' Conlon, none other than the infamous Brooklyn leader's very own younger cousin, two years his junior.

_Oh for Christ's sake_… Runner had a mouth like that good-for-nothing, annoying-as-hell David Jacobs kid from the strike. Not only did he not know when to stop, he assumed his stories were worth telling. Spot knew two-third's of the tall tales were just that—fake. He didn't know who to pity more. Runner for his inability to keep that damn trap shut, or his listeners, who stupidly clung to every word like God himself was talking.

"And then what happened?" A boy named Matches was wide-eyed by this point, toothy grin plastered across his face while his neglected hand of cards rested face down on his table space. He was fully turned toward Runner now.

"What happened? Whaddya think happened? The broad says 'Oh, beggin' ya pardon!' and pulls her hand outta my pocket! Then she walks away. Just like that." He snapped to signify the celerity of the woman's movements.

Spot stared at the five cards he'd been afforded, mind racing through all the probabilities at his disposal should he rid himself of this card or that one. He wasn't too terribly invested in the game tonight. He sold enough _Brooklyn Eagles_ every day to cover lodging fees, one meal a day, and a snack from a food vendor (this because he usually pilfered said snack). Besides, dusk had fallen upon Brooklyn, and he knew he'd have to make the trek to St. Adelaide's Home for Girls within the next half hour.

With record summer temperatures today, he might as well had been walking through the Sahara. He scanned the main room again, curious to see how everyone else was dealing with the notoriety of July heat, but considering all windows were opened, most his newsies seemed unfazed. The closest he came to glimpsing some pursuit of relief simply came in a boy or two fanning himself with his derby hat.

This only served to remind Spot of his own dear, gray hat, now strewn across the docks somewhere in tatters. _Damn dog_, he said to himself, unknowingly glaring at a King of Hearts as he reflected upon the ninety-pound horror called Adelaide. Why his hat of all things? Now he had no way by which to shield his eyes from the summer sun, or hide the mangy locks of hair he didn't always have time to comb.

"But aint I ever told you 'bout the time I snuck into Irving Hall, and all the bulls was—"

"Runner. Enough."

At the sound of Spot Conlon's voice, all those currently sitting at and huddled about the table were stricken silent. Some diverted their eyes to the floor, some uncomfortably studied their cards, and others simply cleared their throats, took swigs from their liquor, or rubbed the backs of their necks distractedly.

Runner's mouth hung ajar, more from being cut off midsentence than from any shock. "I's just tellin a story."

Heads previously turned to Runner to hear his defense quickly snapped back in Spot's direction. They knew their leader didn't tolerate back-talk. To engage in it was to entertain a death wish.

Spot's steel blue eyes settled upon his cousin.

Runner received the message in stride and quietly collected his discarded playing cards as he changed gears to develop a game plan.

Pleased with the obedience, Spot also refocused on the round of poker at hand. He slipped the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled a steady stream of gray smoke. Concentration would not come. Resigned, he returned the nicotine stick to his mouth, holding it tight between his teeth while his fingers shuffled his five cards back into the deck at center. No point in letting the others see just how poorly Lady Luck had shined down upon him tonight.

"I'm out boys." He stood, then, and collected the dark blue, button-down shirt draped over the back of his chair, throwing it over his white beater. For the time being, his suspenders could stay at ease by his legs. It was too hot to feel their weight against his shoulders anyhow. He reached down to retrieve his notable cane, slipped it through a belt loop, and then leaned across the table to reclaim the money he'd gambled up until his fold. He did this not because he needed the money, but because he wished to remind his observers that such was in his power.

No one said a word.

Spot poured the pennies back into a pocket, and started away. "Runner. Come with me."

The younger Conlon inwardly groaned. _For Christ's sake, it was just a story._ Surely Spot could find redder blood on another newsie's hands, couldn't he? Yet without a word of defiance, Runner, too, arose. After offering his cards to an on watcher, he followed his elder out the lodging house into the humid grip of the July evening.

They strode down the docks for a time, engulfed in silence. Walking side by side, anyone might've mistaken the two as brothers, so close was their resemblance. In spite of their two-inch height difference and a disparity in eye color (Spot's were blue, Runner's green), they bore the trademarks of their Conlon legacy in every capacity. The proud stance. The soft but strong face. The thin pale lips. The arresting gaze. The dirty blonde hair.

After appearances, though, they largely departed from each other. Spot was known as many things: dangerous, volatile, temperamental, cold, ruthless. He'd long ago severed attachments with all around him, laying down from the start the rules that would keep his borough in order upon becoming leader. No one was to speak to him unless first spoken to. No one was to second guess his orders. No one was to bother him when in his private quarters of the lodging house. No one was to challenge him in front of the others—unless, of course, they wished to be beaten to within an inch of their lives. Spot was unapproachable. Distant. A newsie could stand right beside him and yet feel a block's worth of brick houses stood between he and his leader.

Runner, on the other hand? He was everything his cousin was not. Roguish, rambunctious, merry, nonchalant, outgoing. A rightful peacekeeper within the borough. There to look after the younger ones, and help sort out the mess of the older ones. Perhaps better suited for Manhattan's following by far, but still accepted only because, if nothing else, he bore a namesake to which total respect was due.

Sure, when Runner had showed up on the doorstep of the Brooklyn Lodging House nearly two years ago, it had undoubtedly taken some getting used to on the Brookys' behalves. His personality was like the bucket of ice water their leader threw at them on those winters mornings when they refused to get out of bed. It took time, but eventually he was just as much a street rat as any other kid in the city. Just not jaded, and without intention of becoming so. Perhaps that's why Spot trusted him as much as he did. Because he remained unmoved on what mattered most to him.

Finally, now yards away from the lodging house, Spot stopped and tossed his cigarette into the East River. "I've gotta head ta Fort Greene for some business," he said, without looking at Runner.

"Meetin' with another borough?"

Spot only shook his head.

Runner didn't bother extracting words from his cousin. When Spot didn't want to divulge information, he didn't. He'd always been that way. Whether it was the brief exchange of words with a one-night-stand before he left her, elementary directions to a bird about to spy on Harlem or Queens, or simply the every day would-be conversations he held with the closest things to friends he had. It was almost as if he had some vendetta against words. He tried to use them as little as possible.

"You'll look after Brooklyn for the night."

The younger raised his brows. "What?"

"Ya heard me." With that, he turned from his cousin and started on his way.

The walk to St. Adelaide's Home for Girls wasn't too terribly long. It was a habit of Spot's anyway to often stroll around his borough after hours. It was as much a way to clear his head as it was to conduct a head count on unaccounted for newsies. He couldn't care less what his boys chose to do with their meager salaries, but as far as he was concerned, the doors to the lodging house were closed and locked at midnight. Sharp. If someone noticed a missing runt, or feared for the drunken tendencies of a friend, Spot often went out of his way to track them down and shepherd them home. It wasn't neccessarily in his nature to tend to his flock, and that's not how he saw it in the least. These rounds were merely another way for him to extend his dictatorship. Rules. Warnings. Lockout. It couldn't have been clearer than day.

Keile's lodging house was a three-story, brick-faced walk up, that had seen better days but was holding its own in Fort Greene thanks to the charitable contributions of the convent that nurtured it. Above its double wooden doors hung a sign, with the building's fond name in gold script. There was a small wire-fenced garden out front, to the right of the building's stairs. At its center was a bird bath; green leaves marred the otherwise transparent little pool. It was hard to tell what colors the garden's many flowers were in the dusk, but Spot would've wagered every spectrum of the rainbow was present.

He rolled his eyes and was about to ascend the stairs before him when a shadow caught his eye. Frowning, he craned his neck back and watched the roof of Adelaide's closely. Though he couldn't glimpse anything a second time, his instinct was unsettled, and years of street life, if nothing else, taught him one thing: you always went with your instinct. He hurried to the side of the building, where he knew the fire escape would be, and started to climb. Curfew's here ran even earlier than in his own precinct. That left little imagination for this shadow's potential intentions. Spot had two guesses. A burglar, or some little punk who thought he'd be getting lucky tonight.

The Brooklyn leader was a fast climber, and within seconds, found himself upon the fire escape's first landing. He peered into one of the lodging house's windows, just in case his prey had bid himself entrance already. He was only met with the sight of an empty hallway, and the shadows cast around a staircase's steep descent. He pushed himself away from the window and stared up into the lattice-work of the fire escape's iron bars. Nothing. He began climbing again, keeping his ears attuned to the sounds around him. His hand was midair, about to take hold of a bar, when he heard the soft heave of a window sliding open.

Turning his body every which way, he could finally make out on the third floor a rectangle of light that suddenly bathed the fire escape's dark exterior. And then a body started to move through that rectangle. Spot wasted no time. Using his upper arm strength to his benefit, he hoisted himself from bar to bar, sprinting across the second landing before undertaking the last flight. His prey looked over a shoulder, and upon seeing Spot, practically threw themself through the window's small opening. Spot was at their feet before the pane could close back into place. He charged in after the intruder, and the two went tumbling to the hardwood floor, straining against and wrestling with each other. The scuffle only lasted seconds, and Spot finally pinned down his opponent, coming out on top.

But what he saw before him was the last thing he expected to encounter...

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**_Please do a doll a favor, and leave me a review? I love reading them. They inspire me to keep writing, and chuck out quicker updates! And who knows, if you're a faithful reader, I might just pull one on ya and put you in the story! ^.^ _**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, _Newsies_. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words _are_ censored.

* * *

**My Troubles with Adelaide **

"Get the feck offa me, ye oaf!"

Spot Conlon inwardly groaned. Before him, pinned down under the weight of his body, was no thief or wayward reprobate. It was only a broad, and therefore nothing more than a very resident of Adelaide's. One who, for the life of her, couldn't keep her trap shut. Spot did it for her. Shoving the palm of his right hand against her lips, he gripped the lower half of her face tight, though was careful not to block her nostrils. No sense in suffocating the girl.

She resulted to close-mouthed screaming, and from somewhere within the bowels of the building, Spot could already hear four paws charge up the lodging house's staircase. _Adelaide_. He cursed under his breath. God, he hated dogs. But at least his suspicions as to the dog's worth as a security guard proved incorrect. Clearly, she was good at what she did.

He wasn't about to release the girl before him, though, until she stopped writhing with panic. The last thing he needed was some broad's screaming fest waking up the entire lodging house. Women had a way of overdramatizing situations. They got too emotional. No sooner would all of Adelaide's residents be awake, then they'd see to it the authorities were contacted, and no sooner were they contacted, then Spot would be in handcuffs and escorted to a county jail.

_No thanks._ They were going to play by his rules, whether they liked it or not.

While he waited for the dame to calm down, he studied her. Her green eyes, even he had to admit, were arresting. They were naturally slanted in a cat-like way, and especially narrowed at this particular moment, burning as they glared up at him. He wasn't unaccustomed to eliciting such looks from the female gender, though they usually came when he callously departed from a still warm bed without a goodbye. The thought of this stuck a feint smirk upon his lips.

Her hair was redder than ever he'd seen on someone's head. It fell in waves, but only past her shoulders. The smirk disappeared. Short hair, to him, was unbecoming of women. The ones who flaunted it were usually those obnoxious spitfires trying to pass themselves off as newsboys. Jack Kelly had always been more lenient about accepting girls among his paper-peddling masses, but Spot was just as adamant in doing the exact opposite. Girls weren't meant to hawk headlines on the streets. It was too dangerous, and too…grimy. Some piece of femininity always had to be sacrificed, whether it was hygiene, manners, or innocence.

At least this broad kept _her_ appearances in order. Her skin was as pale as those porcelain China dolls he often saw vendors selling in Central Park, not a smudge of dirt on her. She was small, too. Spot wagered she was only a few inches over five feet, and probably a small fraction over a hundred pounds. Like Keile, she was cursed with a heavy concentration of freckles, but unlike Keile, the childishness ended there, for her curves weren't at all bad. Spot saw this now as he lifted himself off her body and looked down its length under him. The smirk triumphantly returned.

The room's door suddenly shook back and forth violently within its frame. On the other side, a strong bellow of a bark sounded, and then the alarm wouldn't stop once the first cry had been issued.

Spot groaned again, this time audibly. Adelaide obviously intended on waking up the entire Fort Greene neighborhood the way she was attacking that door. Spot looked down at his prey and pinched her mouth shut hard enough to cause pain. "I'mma let you go, and you'll keep your damn lips sealed, got it?" He didn't wait for a response. He released the girl, and then stood to his feet before striding to the door, which he only _cracked_ open, hoping the dog would recognize his scent and calm down.

The American Bulldog was too revved up to end her hysterics, though. The moment an entrance became available to her, she threw herself at the door to enlarge that entrance. The door, no match for the hyperactive antics of a ninety-pound beast, gave in, flying straight into the face of Spot Conlon. The Brooklyn leader's hands shot up to his nose as he stumbled back a few steps into an adjacent wall.

"F-CK!"

Adelaide, initially lunging across the room to see about the girl whose scream she'd heard, slid to a halt, as if stunned. She jerked around, finally glimpsing Spot, and lifted her wet liver-colored nose an inch higher. A moment of uncertainty. And then, thick tail was high in the air, swinging side to side vigorously, so vigorously in fact that her entire rear swung with it. Adelaide approached the young man as if dancing now, advancing by a few paws, only to jump back and then bow down the front half of her body. She was clearly interested in another round of tug-of-war.

Spot was too busy applying pressure to his swelling nose, hands cupped over it in rigid formation. When he finally did look upon Adelaide, his eyes were narrow slits of ocean blue. "Damn f-cking Adelaide," he muttered to himself. "Get away from me!" He lurched forward to stomp a foot in her path, but this only caused Adelaide to bark excitedly and pounce on the area he'd struck.

"What's all this! You know her, d'ye?" The girl in the room was standing now, closely observing Adelaide's transition from maniacal watchdog to affectionate friend. So this wasn't an intruder? Her eyes settled upon Spot questioningly as she crossed her arms. "You aren't one of Miracle's man-whores, aye? It'd only figure, the feckin' slut. Well the lass aint here, so I suggest you be showing yourself right back out the way you came." She started for the doorway then, but not before looking down at herself to adjust her skirt and blouse, slightly disheveled from Spot's assault. "And you listen real close, boyo." She pointed a finger at him. "The next time you make an entrance such as this one, and I'm on the receiving end of it, you best be protecting your most precious assets, if ye follow me."

Spot reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could exit the room. "Trust me, _sweetheart_. I wouldn't have made the entrance if you knew how to use the front doors."

"Doors are locked at 7 PM. No sooner, no later. What's it to you, anyway?" She tried to wrench herself free from his grip.

This only served to make him squeeze tighter. "I'm Spot Conlon. That answer your question?"

"And I'm Scottie McGowan, but you don't see me traipsing about like a blindin' loon, now d'ye?"

Adelaide was still barking throughout this whole repartee, disappointed no attention was being given her.

Spot finally whirled toward the dog. "For Christ's sake, shut the f-ck up!"

Ah, there was the attention she so craved. The bully's droopy lips lengthened into a charmed smile.

"I oughta pan your face in, I hope you know." Scottie finally freed herself from Spot's merciless hold. "Feckin' eejit." She looked down at the ring of red steadily forming around her wrist and rubbed it with a frown.

"Hey, I don't exactly want to be here, either, all right? I'm just doing Keile a favor."

She gave him a surprised look. "_You're_ the reinforcements she sent for?" In the very same manner he'd earlier undertaken toward her, she scanned him up and down with her eyes, taking in everything from the faded loose suspenders on their last thread to the wooden slingshot protruding from a back pocket to the strings he used for boot laces. What most caught her attention were his blackened palms. "A _newsie_?" By the way the word escaped her, she could've been referring to a drunkard or moral deviant.

Spot straightened himself at the appraisal. "Yeah, a newsie. Got a problem with that?"

Scottie produced something akin to a snort and continued toward the doorway. "There's a guest room downstairs you can sleep in. Make sure you disappear by 6 AM, though."

"I don't take orders."

She looked back at him, somewhat amused. "Well, that'd be the hour the Sisters come on down to tend to the place. Unless you've got the sun shining outta your arse, or are the Lord Himself—which I highly doubt—you'll want to see yourself away before ye rouse suspicions."

With that, she was gone.

Spot remained in place, staring now at the empty doorway and the darkness shrouding the area beyond it. He raised a hand to touch his nose and winced slightly at the pain. Beside him, he could hear Adelaide's heavy panting, and afforded her a quick glimpse. She was lying down at his feet, one front paw crossed over the other, seemingly enjoying nothing more than the joys of merely existing.

He rolled his eyes.

St. Adelaide's Home for Girls was a stark contrast to the Brooklyn Lodging House within which Spot Conlon had spent the past few years growing up. He attributed the differences to the Sisters of St. Agnes. Their loyalty toward their charges was fierce. The furnishings and décor of the main room were a testament to this. Here, the wallpaper did not peel. Here, there lived no rats. Here, there were framed oil paintings of religious scenes and daisies in vases and shelves upon shelves of literature and beautifully woven rugs all throughout.

"I guess it pays to be a prude, ah?" Spot smirked at Adelaide, who'd accompanied him downstairs, but the dog only tilted her head to the side, confused. Again, he rolled his eyes. He continued his reconnaissance of the area, ensuring that all windows and doors were locked, checking behind and under furniture for intruders, blowing out candles that had been left burning. For the most part, all was well, and at the end of his duties, he stood at the middle of the main room with hands on his hips, proud of the chores' completions.

It wasn't too hard for Spot Conlon to find pride in anything he did, though.

He figured all that was left to do now was call it a night. Even if it was still early. His boys back at the docks were probably just beginning their games of poker. The Brooklyn leader knew he could've simply part ways with Adelaide and come back some time tomorrow, between the morning and afternoon editions perhaps. He also knew that if trouble was bound to happen in Keile's absence, it'd happen on the first night.

He would stay, he decided. He looked to Adelaide to announce his retirement for the night. "All right, I'm calling it a—"

A sound came from the fireplace.

Both Spot and the Bulldog turned toward the nose before slowly approaching the shady, brick-faced bed of coals. Spot waited a few moments, eyes trained on the space in front of him. There was a hiss, and then an entourage of soot, sand, and small twigs poured down into the fireplace, bringing up a small cloud of dust. Spot waved the cloud away, suppressing a cough, and waited for it to dissipate before sticking his head into the hearth to gaze up its chimney. Even after letting his vision adjust, all he could see was blackness.

He was about to pull away, but then something reached his ears. It sounded like a soft moan. Down a corner of the chimney, another trail of debris slid by. Spot pulled himself fully into the fireplace, and then stood up, so that the majority of his body now disappeared up into the chimney. From his belt loop, he produced his cane, and extended the weapon as high as he could reach, trying to feel for any oddities.

"Who goes there?" He called out, somewhat threateningly, cane now striking at the chimney's walls. It wasn't long before it came upon something soft. From above him, Spot heard a gasp. _Gotchya_. He struck at the same place a second time, and then tried to move the cane for better leverage, but it wouldn't budge. Was it caught on something? Whatever the something was, it tried to jerk free, but in a bout of exasperation, Spot heaved the cane downward.

There was a thud, a grating, and then an ear-piercing scream as Spot's 'something' came crashing down at near lightning speed, headed straight for him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews, guys! I really love receiving them, so please keep them coming, and you'll get your quick updates! In the next chapter, we can expect our dearies Air and Prince to make an appearance. I might possibly add a third, but I don't want to overwhelm readers with tons of characters at once ^.^ But don't worry! Everyone will have their due spotlight!

**Air: **Sooner than later, it is! I hope you enjoyed your update. And thanks for re-reading the story! I made a few changes to the earlier chapters, so I'm glad at least someone was able to enjoy them haha. You're making an appearance in the next chapter, so get excited!

**Betcya: **Yes, could you please re-send me those characters of yours I said I'd use? Thanks for staying onboard with the story! I'm glad you're enjoying it. With every story I chuck out, I try to portray Spot a bit more temperamental than the last time, haha, so I'm glad you appreciate his character!

**Tetris:** Please no Ninja Flames. Otherwise, how would I be able to write? Anyway, I hope you appreciate this chapter! You better! You're definitely my biggest cheerleader, though, so thanks for motivating me to continue pursuing this story! Haha

**Swindler: **Runner IS adorable. I love him. I've had him in stories for six years now, and he just never gets old. Where would Spot Conlon be without such a wonderful goof of a cousin? ^.^ Thanks for the review! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Prince: **Bonus points for Runner? Oh yay! You've made his day ^.^ I've had the kid around for six years now in stories, and I just couldn't help but pull him into this one as well. What's a girl to do! Yes, you did send me Prince's profile, and she's making an appearance in the next chapter! Thanks

**Cheetah: **Hey Cheets! I don't have your profile in my email inbox, back from when I did the NML CC. Could you email it over to me? My email's varsityloveangel at yahoo dot com. I'll let you know if I need anything else. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Review review review, please?


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Spot Conlon is not my own. He unfortunately belongs to Disney, within the premise of that great classic, _Newsies_. Also, a number of original characters appear in this tale who also do not belong to me; credit is due to a number of wonderful readers for these personalities. However, Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon DO belong to me, so huzzah! Finally, on a technical note, this story has strong language at times, as it concerns the temperamental Brooklyn leader we so adore, but particular words _are_ censored.

* * *

**My Troubles with Adelaide **

"Christ! Don't nobody enter a building the conventional way no more?" Spot Conlon violently shoved away the someone that had landed atop him. He had broken his former prey's fall, upon the jagged pieces of coal that were the fireplace's bed, and his back was now searing with pain. A cloud of soot steadily rose, then, taunting the pair like a damned spirit as it weaved between their bodies. And amidst all the madness, Adelaide couldn't quite control, yet again, her compulsive barking.

Spot sat up, not quickly, and waved the blackness away with one hand as his other reached for the bones of his lower back. From his lips leaked a number of muttered obscenities. Adelaide's guttural exclamations were like dynamites in his ear. He brought down a hand, fingers closing around a piece of coal. Grip tight, he chucked the rock straight for Adelaide, knocking the poor dog on the right ear.

Startled, Adelaide scrambled a few feet away, taking cover from the rock, which spun in dizzying pirouettes across the hardwood floor. When all seemed safe, she padded over to the fiend and inspected it from a distance, lest it launch another attack.

"What's your problem!" From behind the dark cloud, a dirt-smudged face emerged. It was a boy, dark derby hat just barely covering his head.

Spot swung his glare in the boy's direction. "_Excuse_ me?"

"You can't just throw rocks at a dog like that! What'd she even do to you?"

Spot's expression now transformed into one of disbelief. "I can do whatever I want, kid. The real question here, though, is—" He crawled out from inside the fireplace, and then turned around to yank his companion from the hearth as well "—who the hell are _you _and—" He stopped.

The boy was not a boy at all. No, the supposed he was very much a girl. At Spot's aggressive pull, she had tripped on the fireplace's bottom ledge, causing her already loose hat to quietly dislodge from her skull and plop down onto the floor. A thick wad of long brown hair, thankfully free, cascaded past her shoulders. It was about a foot and a half long.

The girl yanked herself from Spot's hold, blush spotting her cheeks, and snatched her hat from the ground. In what seemed to be rehearsed protocol, she quickly grabbed her hair, twisted it into a neat bunch atop her head, and forced the black derby back into place. Then she crossed her arms, body stiff, and regarded Spot.

"Who the hell are _you_? I live here. What's _your_ story?" Her eyes were a stunning green, much like Scottie's. They were blazing.

Spot was too preoccupied with assessing the girl's appearance to offer any response. She wore a long-sleeved black and white striped shirt, rolled up to the elbows, over a pair of brown pants, held up with a belt's assistance. She was also ridiculously dirty.

"You know, you'd be doing yourself a favor by taking a look at your own self in the mirror. We both happen to be covered in soot at the moment, thanks."

The Brooklyn leader met her eyes with a glower. He'd been oblivious to the fact that he mirrored her sullied exterior, but he wasn't about to admit it. "I know that," he snapped instead.

"Are you Keile's friend?"

Spot still afforded her no answers. There was something about her face. He felt he'd seen her before, years ago, in passing or in the papers, which of the two, he could not recall. "Ya look familiar."

Her posture stiffened even more. She may have even paled, but Spot couldn't be too sure, what with all the dirt and chimney debris on her skin. "I doubt that. I've never even seen you in my life."

"What's with you broads? The Sisters got you under house arrest or something? You aint never heard a' Spot Conlon? The most famous and respected newsie in alla New York? Y'know, if it weren't for me and Brooklyn, that strike last summer wouldn'tve amounted to nothing. You're familiar with _that_ much, right? The strike?"

This time, she was silent. She side-stepped him, and then rushed past en route to the staircase. It wasn't until she was on the third step, hand on the wooden banister, that she finally found her voice. "Keile said you might be staying here some nights. Your room is right down this way." She leaned over the banister and pointed down a short hallway. "Door on the left. You got any questions, you can let Scottie know."

"And what's _your_ name?"

The girl straightened. "Prince," she said. "Real name's Saunders." She watched him while issuing that important piece of information, hoping for a sign of defeat on his behalf. He was impartial. She put the matter to rest and continued ascending the stairs. "Uhm…good night." She hurried up the last steps.

---------------

For the first time in too painfully long a time, Spot had slept as soundly as a child from higher society. At Adelaide's, the mattresses weren't moth eaten and the spring boxes weren't busted. The bed linen wasn't threadbare, coarse, or stained either. In fact, Spot was more than certain that what he'd experienced last night was nothing less than what sleeping on clouds must feel like.

He slept so well, as it were, that he very much _over_slept. By the time his mind softly glided away from dreams about soaking scabs and staging a coup d'état against Queens, his entire body was bathed in the rays of the merciless July sun. His eyelids drowsily yawned open, and for a moment, Spot only stared at the dust particles dancing before him in the bright light. …Bright light?

He bolted upright and spun toward the window behind him. Only then did he hear the cries of his beloved borough. Vendors bellowed out the prices for their fruits and treats as they pushed carts on squeaky wheels. Children accompanied their mothers in and out of stores, asking a million questions a minute, and throwing tantrums whenever they weren't allowed the purchase of a toy. Horse carriages slowly trudged along, hooves on the cobblestone like a marching beat.

"_Damnit_!" He estimated the _Brooklyn Eagle_'s distribution office had been in service for at least two or three hours already. Even if he made it there in record time, he doubted there'd be any newspapers left to buy. Although, if he could find Runner in time, he could just conveniently deprive his cousin of half his papers. Lord knew Runner Conlon couldn't sell for the life of him anyway.

It was an embarrassment, really. Spot would've assumed the kid's quick wit and natural penchant for mischief would've created the most brilliant half-truth's in the paper-peddling world. The Brooklyn leader figured he was to blame for Runner's lethargy. As much as he taught and threatened him, he still covered his cousin's lodging fees whenever the younger was short on money. He still fought his battles when the younger stepped on the wrong toes in another borough. He still made the kid slingshot after confounded slingshot every time Runner broke or lost or gambled away his own.

"Damn Runner," he muttered to himself.

The night prior, he'd slept in his clothes, so there remained no morning preparations to embark upon other than throwing water onto his face. The water closet was across the hallway, and he swung open his bedroom door to start for it, only to slam it back shut when he glimpsed the ominous figure just yards away. _Damnit_. A Sister from St. Agnes. Scottie had warned him about the nuns' early arrival. Now he had no choice but to await his impending doom, or climb out the bedroom window.

Though situated on the first floor, the window was still a ways off from the ground below. A quick analysis of the situation informed Spot that the jump would be maybe twenty feet high. The fire escape wasn't on this side of the building, either, so there'd be no structure from which he could dismount. It was windowsill to dirt alley in the span of three seconds.

He'd done worst.

Forcing up the windowpane, he stuck his head out and examined his landing area, hoping to espy any broken glass or other sharp, and therefore pain-inducing, objects. All clear. He climbed out onto the brick sill; it was probably less than six inches wide. So far, the balancing act was working out in his favor. One hand slid into the nook above a brick where mortar had decayed away. His other hand stayed upon the windowpane as he attempted to east it back in place.

"You shouldn't do that!"

Spot jumped at the sudden voice. His right foot, upon which most of his weight was based, slipped past the edge of the windowsill. It was a lost cause after that. The rest of the newsboy plunged twenty feet to the dirt below, crashing onto his back hard enough to have the wind knocked out of him.

"Oh my! Are you all right?"

Spot's eyes were shut tight as he bit the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from screaming. _F-ck. F-ck. F-ck_! He remained laying where he was for a good few minutes, only opening his eyes when the question was asked of him a second time.

Two soft hazel eyes peered down at him from behind a pair of glasses. These glasses sat upon a slender nose. Once she had the newsie's attention, a girl's lips lengthened into a smile. She smiled with her teeth, her lower lip only barely covering up her bottom set of pearly whites. Her hair was a light cinnamon shade, and in the sunshine, it glowed in an angelic way.

"Christ," Spot muttered.

The girl arched an eyebrow. "You shouldn't say God's name in vain, you know." The reprimand was short-lived. She quickly reached down, grabbed Spot by the forearms, and struggled to pull him up. "Goodness, you're heavy!" She laughed. "I'm sorry for scaring you back there—"

"I wasn't scared," he said, almost snarling as he pulled his arms away from her and stood of his own means.

"Oh, well, of course not!" Another smile. "My name is Arielle Jantje VanderNeut," she announced proudly, beaming. "It's Dutch. I'm from Holland! But everyone around here calls me Air. You can call me Air, too, so long as you're staying here. You're Spot, right? I heard Prince and Scottie talking about you. I'm glad you've decided to help us out I know Keile really appreciates it!"

During her speech, Spot had ensured his trademark possessions were still on his person. Cane: check. Slingshot: check. Necklace: check. He dusted himself off, frowning when he saw that some soot from last night still remained embedded on the threads of his shirt and suspenders. By the time he returned his eyes to Air, he was surprised to find the girl still rambling on.

"Your mouth got an off button?"

She blinked. Then laughed. Her fingers jumped up to her lips. "I don't think so! Can't find one, at least! Hey, are you busy right now? You probably are, but do you mind walking me to my job? Scottie usually comes along, but she's off looking for a job today. She was a seamstress at O'Malley's, but they fired her."

"Surprise, surprise." Spot rolled his eyes.

Air remained uncertain for a moment, and then grinned. "She doesn't stay at one place for too long. Anyway, how about it? It's just a fifteen to twenty minute walk from here! I'm a nanny for this lovely couple. They have three children. Twin boys, Michael and Matthew—they're eight, and little Hannah. She's five. I've been their nanny for a year now! I love working with kids. They're best at using their imagination."

By this time, they had left the alley behind and were now walking side by side down the busy streets of Fort Greene. Spot had paid little attention to Air's words. If he hadn't his pride to keep intact, he would've been limping at this point. God, did he feel battered. At least it kept the scowl on his face for him.

"And they love stories more than adults do. I love coming up with imaginary adventures with them. You should've heard the one we came up with yesterday. Michael insisted that—oh!"

Spot hauled the girl out of the way of an oncoming vendor when it became clear she wouldn't move herself.

"Oh! Silly me! I run into things all the time! I'm such a scatterbrain!"

_No kidding_, Spot thought to himself.

"Sorry!" She called out to the vendor, waving at him with a smile as they passed by. "Now, what was I saying?"

"Where's this place? How much farther?"

"Oh!" Air took in her surroundings. She was surprised to see how far they'd ventured into the neighborhood. Time certainly did fly by when one was having fun! "It's right down this block! It's the three-story with the cute green window shutters. See it? With the cat on the stoop? Oh, have you had a chance to meet Adelaide?"

"Unfortunately."

In her mind, she heard a more joyful response. "I know, isn't she wonderful? If I could be an animal…hmm, what would I be?"

They were at the house now. Spot turned to face her and nodded. "Well, have fun."

"Wait! Aren't you going to come inside? Michael would _love_ to meet the leader of the Brooklyn newsies! You're all he ever talked about last year. For Christmas, he even wanted a slingshot, because he heard your newsies can never be seen without one. Is that true?"

Spot's interest piqued at this development. A smirk grew on his lips. "Yeah, it's true. Well, bring the kid out here. I aint got all day, you know."

Grinning, Air nodded and rushed up the stairs into the building. Spot remained behind and took in a deep breath, hand darting to his lower back. He groaned. _Damn_! He decided to hold his cane behind him, and roll the thing up and down his spinal cord, hoping it would alleviate at least some of the pain. It didn't do much.

"Spot!"

The Brooklyn leader looked up to find an exasperated Air standing outside the building's front doors. She was out of breath, eyes wide, hands almost trembling. He frowned. "What'sa matter?"

"The kids are gone!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **And so the mayhem begins…

**Air: **And here's yet another update for you! I hope you enjoyed Air's appearance. She was such a refreshing personality to write after Spot's run-in with tough cookies haha.

**Betcya: **Thanks for the review! Glad you're entertained thus far! One (or more!) of your characters is making an appearance next chapter, so get excited!

**Tetris:** Yeah, I thought you'd like the last chapter haha. Scottie is quite fun to write, actually. I can't wait to use her more in the rest of the story. I think she and Spot will have many a lovely run-in. They're just the type of people who'd argue like a married couple, haha. (And yes, I do think Adelaide's sole purpose in life at this point is to piss off Spot haha)

**Swindler: **No, no, no! Don't get killed by all the cliffhangers! You would be sorely missed! Haha. Glad you're enjoying the story so far! I don't think Spot will EVER learn, if you ask me. Poor lad has so many misfortunes coming his way…haha.

**Prince: **You're too kind, girly, you're too kind! ^.^ It makes my heart dance that you think I've nailed the character of the one and only Spot Conlon. I try so hard to get him just right. The movie just barely touched on his character! I like filling in the blanks! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed your cameo in this story! I definitely want to touch on Prince's past, I.E. her ties with a certain Refuge warden haha. I think it'll be good stuff : )

**Miss Roman: **How could I not join the Revival team? I miss receiving tons of NML emails! Thanks for stopping on by to read my story! I love yours, and can't wait to read some more! Young Francis Sullivan is just too cute! : )

Review review review, please?


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Keile Fetuao and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon are the only characters in here that belong to me! Everyone else belongs to a lovely contributor or to Disney, and Spot Conlon owns himself, I'd imagine.

**Author's Note: **Wow, it's been some time, huh? I bet you never thought you'd see this story get updated! But alas, I'm feeling nostalgic so I thought I'd write another chapter. If you were apart of my original casting call, please let me know you're still around, and I'll use you! If you'd like to be a character in this, I definitely need some more! So leave your profile in a review.

**Brief Recap: **Keile Fetauo, leader of St. Adelaide's Home for Girls has fallen ill. With Spot's blessing, she's headed to an infirmary to receive medical attention while Spot's agreed to look after the Home in her absence. Leaving his younger cousin in charge of the Brooklyn Lodging House, he made his way to the girls. He's already met three of the Home's tenants: the fiery Scottie who he's already at odds with, the mysterious Prince who he's certain he's seen somewhere before, and the bubbly Air, who is the nanny to three kids currently gone missing!

* * *

**My Troubles with Adelaide **

Spot Conlon had been absent from the Brooklyn Lodging House for less than twenty-four hours. That was more than enough time for utter chaos to blossom in his borough. As Runner Conlon often liked to say, he himself was a Conlon no doubt, but he was Runner first. Never mind the fact an extreme honor had been bestowed upon him last night when Spot had entrusted him as temporary leader. They both knew the word leader only operated in the loosest sense when applied to Runner. Despite being Spot's confidante and most trusted friend, the East River would have to dry up in entirety before Brooklyn saw the day when Runner assumed Spot's throne as King of New York.

It was simply a formality and nothing more, this responsibility of watching after Brooklyn's business while Spot tangoed with the broads of Adelaide's. There were those with greater seniority than himself, Runner thought. Let them worry about the politics of running a borough. The younger Conlon was more concerned with one thing: with his elder out of the picture, every prank he had ever dreamed up and imagined could now come into fruition and, best of all, go unpunished!

When Spot had left last night, had abandoned him on the docks with cryptic explanations, Runner had tried to remember the exact point in time when Spot had lost his humanity. He didn't live like other human beings did. He didn't think like them, or feel like them, or let himself become hurt like them. Those who revered him called it the essence of his divinity, that thing which made him a demigod in their eyes.

Runner called it a tragedy. It seemed like another lifetime now, but he had fading memories of when Spot was 'normal'--just another boy growing up in New York, a future brimming with possibilities ahead of him.

Spot's past was the kind that was never brought up at the dining room table when the Conlon's came together for Thanksgiving or Christmas. His father had been a drunkard of a fisherman. The cod-smelling Irish-blooded fool staggered down the streets of Brooklyn every night he wasn't on sea, slurring his way through silly limericks, speaking to apparitions with any variety of names, and sometimes sobbing onto empty barrels at the mouths of dark alley's. He'd been this way since the stillbirth of his second child, a lad he'd planned on naming Connor, a boy that would've been Spot's younger brother. The dead child twisted the inside of its parents in ugly knots, and Spot was left to watch as his family succumbed to depression and decayed.

His father had left on a fishing trip one night months later, and never returned. Rumor had it the sea storm of 1894 had taken his life. Mother and son waited endlessly for the man's return, but the wait was in vain.

Spot was thirteen when his mother began to prostitute herself. He played out the naiveté for his mother's sake, pretending each night that he was fast asleep whenever she slipped out on cat's feet. Whenever she brought home a man, Spot turned a blind eye and preoccupied himself with the wood carving's he'd so loved. It was something his father had taught him, crafting anything from soldiers to household items from wood. It had begun as a hobby, and had become an escape.

It was when one of his mother's clients struck him that Runner's parents had intervened. They had scolded their sister-in-law, chastising her for allowing such sin into her home, for allowing her son to become a victim in her selfish and degrading pursuits. Spot had never held a grudge against his mother. Though he preferred that she keep her decency, he knew she'd only sought to provide a meal for him every day. Still, he didn't argue when she insisted his relatives were right, and that better sanctuary could be provided under their guardianship.

Spot was compliant in the beginning. Runner's parents thought they could make a gentleman of him yet. He was bright, and a fast learner, and both abilities would assist him in school. He was enrolled in The Preparatory School at St. John the Divine's in Morningside Heights, Manhattan. He would receive a fine education, and then pursue further study in perhaps medicine or law.

It was just before the spring of 1896 when Runner caught the look in his older cousin's eyes one day. Those eyes had become unreadable over time; they complimented the stoic façade that Spot had perfected. He'd learned to rein in all emotion, becoming like stone.

"You all right?" Runner had asked, brows furrowed in concern as he joined Spot at a window on the third story of their home, overlooking the rooftops that looked like a beach of golden sand in the setting sun.

"Never felt better," the other replied.

He was gone by nightfall. He'd never returned.

Runner understood the cause of his cousin's departure from human emotion, but one thing was for sure: he never wanted to become like him. It's why he made every possible effort to stand apart from Spot. One temperamental dark brooder was enough for the Conlon name anyway.

It was with this rationale in mind that Runner unleashed his first prank. It had been concocted in hushed whispers outside the lodging house hours after Spot had left to Adelaide's. His main accomplice, as usual, was Roberto 'Trick' Ruffin. The five-foot-five Costa Rican was an accomplished acrobat who used his stunts to sell papers when his tongue wasn't fast enough to weave together lies. He was a boisterous seventeen year old, and found enjoyment in laughter. It was this more than anything that made him and Runner fast friends.

In the dark, Trick's tanned skin made him shadow-like, but his black eyes glimmered with mischief as he and Runner unraveled the beauty of their plan that night, like kids opening up the Christmas present they'd been eyeing all December.

The prank was unleashed the next morning. It was a simple and ridiculous little bout of silliness that involved strings, shaving cream, honey, and ants. The youngest in Brooklyn's brood were reduced to tears. The eldest cursed and complained, and made empty threats. The ones in between felt inconvenienced but at the same time couldn't help but smirk when their more serious peers weren't looking. It was like becoming initiated into a fraternity, a fraternity of mayhem, and Runner Conlon was their jester of a prince.

---------------

It had been nearly an hour since Air had discovered that her charges were missing from the home she daily visited. As she and Spot hurried down the cobblestone that made up Fort Greene's main street, she wrung her hands, looking every which way, praying to God the trio had merely stepped out to chase a stray animal. As they weaved their way in and out of the morning crowd, her hopes grew weaker. Where could they be? Had they been taken? But by whom? And why? No ransom note had been left behind. If the kidnappers had no desire for money, what did they want?

She shuddered at all the available answers.

Spot boasted no experience with children outside of dealing with his cousin's stupidity. The youngest among his newsboys was twelve. He had little patience and denied the paper-peddling lifestyle to anyone younger than this.

"This aint no daycare, kid," he'd say, time and time again.

Most Brooky's, as they affectionately called themselves, were upwards of sixteen and climbing. Unlike the jovial and carefree nature of Manhattan's following, Spot expected a certain maturity from his boys. They guarded the docks beside their lodging house like wolves circling a marked territory; any visitor maintained the eerie feeling that the uninvited was unwelcome. They scowled more than they laughed, fought more than they made peace, and rumor had it a third of them had clocked in considerable time at the Refuge. It was this rumor that shrouded Brooklyn newsboys with a certain mystique, and gave even allies second thoughts when venturing into the borough.

"How old is these kids, eh?" Tracking children on a summer afternoon wasn't the highest priority on Spot's to-do list. He raked fingers through his dirty blonde locks and rested his other hand on a hip. If they were anything like Runner, he thought, they were probably simply chasing after harmless trouble. _And if Runner knows what's good for him, that lodging house better still be standing today…_

"Michael and Matthew are eight years old. They're twins. They have dark chestnut brown hair, and dark brown eyes. They have very European faces." Air took in a slow breath, held it for a few moments, and then exhaled. She managed a smile, but Spot could tell it was forced. She was clearly the type of person who didn't enjoy letting others know she was upset.

"Michael tries to act like a grown up and mimics his father a lot," she continued. "His father's a businessman. Matthew's a follower. Then there's little Hannah. She's five years old. Same hair color as her brother's, but her eyes are like shamrock green. She's very shy and quiet, and usually just tags along, sucking her thumb."

Spot had an idea, then. He had eyes and ears all over New York, a strength he never let anyone forget. One of the first things he'd done upon becoming leader years ago was establish a network of observers and messengers who kept him informed of each significant neighborhood's goings-on. The Birds. Brooklyn's spies. If anyone had seen three polished kids out of place in the city, it'd be one of his Birds.

The problem was getting a hold of one. They were so masterful in their art that sometimes they eluded even him, though this he would never acknowledge. His cobalt eyes quickly scanned the rooftops of the buildings surrounding them, but this proved to no avail, and he'd already figured it wouldn't. If ever someone caught sight of a Bird, it's because he'd wanted you to. Otherwise, they were as good as invisible. He thought to summon one with the distinct whistle they'd developed, but he had to be frank with himself and admit the chances were slim to none a Bird was perched in this sleepy neighborhood.

They would have to head to the lodging house. "Come with me," he said simply to the girl beside him, before turning on his heels.

Air blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in plan. She pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her slender nose and watched Spot's figure disappear into the crowds. For a moment, she thought to protest, but then she remembered Michael's constant raving about New York's "most famous newsie in the history of the world" and decided that if anyone could find the children, it would be Spot Conlon.

Grabbing her skirt to hike up the ends, she scurried after him.

---------------

Brooklyn's equivalent to Tibby's Diner was a quaint little establishment painted the color of pea soup called Fiddler's Tavern. Though owned by an Irish family of the surname Murdoch, the menu featured an array of items from bratwursts and ravioli to tuna melts and French Toast. It was adventure enough simply perusing the thick book that listed all the restaurant's renown delights.

The most loyal and consistent patrons were the local newsboys, and as such it wasn't uncommon to find one or ten lounged in Fiddler's stiff, red-cushioned booths. It was a haven, especially on torturous summer days, where the restaurants wooden blinds shielded customers from a vengeful July sun. The ceiling fans were always running, the water always ice cold, and the staff always amicable and inviting. With a full service bar and an upright Kohler & Campbell's piano in a murky corner, it was a place where good memories were meant to be made.

At this hour, the restaurant was at its busiest, being that it was almost 1 pm and customers were filtering in for lunch. The Brooky's kept to themselves toward the back, albeit raucously, as Runner Conlon held court.

At least that's what he called it.

At some point since morning, he'd made it an official rule that he was to be referred to heretofore as 'Lord Conlon', and that any refusal to do so would result in immediate expulsion from the borough. This he'd announced with a one-hundred-watt grin, and so as usual, he wasn't taken seriously.

"All right, listen up, boys! I've got a nice piece a' work right here!" Runner was in the middle of devouring five waffle fries simultaneously, so half the sentence was lost, as was half his attention when Trick stole a fry from his plate. "Hey! That cost me some hard-earned cash, y'bum!"

"_Ay Dios, mio_!" Trick exclaimed, in his native Spanish. "How much longer do we have to put up with this?" He laughed and snitched another fry from his companion.

They were sandwiched between the Krieger twins, Chris 'Styx' and Casey 'Nike'. Both enjoyed the merrier things in life, and it did help that the sister among the pair was easy on the eyes. Runner and Trick often went on about her sky-blue eyes, and that silken chocolate hair she always wore in a high ponytail. Sometimes, one dared the other to run his fingers through the velvety locks. This would begin any number of schemes which never went past the drawing board. At the end of the day, neither had the courage to do so much as look the girl in her eyes.

As long as her brother was there, though, they at least had an excuse to act like kings and only hope she'd take notice. She hardly did. She was a messenger in the city, where businesses found her quick feet useful in running errands and making deliveries. She stayed in another lodging house for girls, and only visited with her brother every few days. She thought her brother's companions an odd sort, but if anything, they made her smile and that was at least worth something.

"As I was sayin'," Runner continued, casting a look of feigned displeasure Trick's way when a third fry had been pilfered. "Make me an offer, and this baby can be yours!" He produced something from his pant pocket and held it up for all the behold. A navy blue misshapen marble caught the sunlight between his forefinger and thumb.

It was one of Spot Conlon's shooters. Legend had it that if you used a shooter that had once been in the Brooklyn leader's arsenal, you'd never miss your target. He kept a cigar box of shooters in his private bedroom at the lodging house. Everyone knew it existed. None had ever glimpsed its contents. Until now.

"I'll give ya two bits for it!" No one knew who'd said it, but suddenly the crowd of newsboys around Runner broke into shouts as each boy threw out a bid in hopes of lassoing in that coveted marble.

It was because of this cacophony that none of them heard the cheap bell above Fiddler's front door tinker. No one noticed when a tall, slender young man of eighteen sauntered to the back of the restaurant, followed by two broad lackey's. The frontman's hair was black and greasy, and a thin unlit cigarette protruded from his dry lips.

"Well well well. Word has it Conlon aint nowhere to be seen in these parts. Had to come verify facts for myself."

The tight circle of Brooky's suddenly lost its elasticity and widened out slowly, stricken silent by the sudden presence of this intruder. A few of the older boys, the ones who'd ignored Runner's antics and taken to their lunches, now stood from their booths and drew closer, eyes full of warning.

The young man glanced to each of his companions with a condescending smirk. "And looky looky what I find. A kindergarten class fightin' over some damn marble. Sure would be a shame if Brooklyn was left unguarded, wouldn't it boys?"

"Sure would," one said back, crossing his thick arms.

"What're you, lost? Get the hell out our territory, Cobra." It was Brooklyn's second oldest, after Spot, who'd spoken.

Cobra didn't move. He just kept his eyes locked onto Runner's, the smirk never leaving his face.

Runner suddenly felt the totality of his sixteen years, and the feather-light weight of his experience on the streets. In a move Spot would've never been caught dead doing, he diverted his eyes, deferring to the older boy.

Cobra snickered. Victory. A small one, but a victory nonetheless. Brooklyn lacked a backbone so long as Spot wasn't seated on his throne, that much was obvious. The leader of Queens' newsboys muttered a word, "pathetic", before turning around and leaving, his minions on his heels.

There was an uneasy silence before Runner finally spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Someone go find Spot.

* * *

**Swindler: **Thanks for the kind words. I'm glad you find the story entertaining. I don't usually write comedy, so it's been a challenge, so I'm glad to know it's not coming across dumb or anything ; )

**Betchya: **I'm sorry this chapter took so long to put up, but I've used your characters as promised! : ) I hope you enjoyed!

**Prince: **Hello, my darling! In the beginning, you offered accolade after accolade for my ability to update so quickly. Then over a year passed without updates haha. Well anyway, I hope you're still around and that you'll read this baby up because I'm still using your character!

**Crystal: **Spot's character down to an art form!? : D Yaay, that makes me happy. It's almost like it's a class you take: Spot Conlon 101. Haha.

**Tetris: **Well it's been some time, but here it is, the next chapter! Haha. Hope you enjoy!

**Air: **Don't worry, the kids will be found! …Or will they? Dun dun dun! Haha. I love cliffhangers, what can I say! They make the world go 'round : D Thanks for being a faithful reader and reviewer!

**Cary Grant: **Why thank you! Haha

**Fanficfan84: **Thank you for taking the time to review! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**ApplePie777: **Don't worry, Spot won't fall into a romance! Haha. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

**Please please please: if you took the time to read, leave me a review? Tell me what you think? Please, miss? *newsie pout***


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Keile Fetuao, Cobra, and Lucas 'Runner' Conlon are the only characters in here that belong to me! Everyone else belongs to a lovely contributor or to Disney, and Spot Conlon owns himself, I'd imagine.

**Author's Note: **A big thanks to everyone who sent in a profile for my mini casting call! I will use everyone, of course--though I might tweak some ages. I don't like to overload readers with too much information, so your character might not appear in every single chapter. But rest assured that when they do appear, it won't be some mindless cameo! They'll have their due spotlight : ) I usually give more weight of a story to characters belonging to those who faithfully read and review (it's only fair, right?) So, on that note, if some characters fade out, it's because I haven't heard from their owner in a while.

This chapter was originally going to feature more of Spot, but it ended up being longer than I'd intended (I try to keep chapters between 2500 and 3000 words!). He will make his triumphant return next chapter, along with a lot of new faces! : )

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**My Troubles with Adelaide **

"A newsie of all things, can ye imagine!"

Scottie McGowan knelt beside a water basin in the washroom of St. Adelaide's as she scrubbed the dirt off the lodging house's guard dog of the same name. Adelaide sat in the lukewarm water lazily, relishing the grooming. Her only spark of defiance came whenever more water gurgled forth from the adjacent pump; she'd snap at the stream without end.

Bree, the eight year old brunette who operated the pump, found delight in this, as was apparent in the twin dimples that marked either side of her cheeks. She carefully moved recently trimmed bangs from her eyes, and then giggled. "Adelaide, you're so silly!"

The American Bulldog continued her antics nonetheless, keeping a watchful gaze on that pump once the water stopped. Such a bewitching object could not be trusted.

"Bloody hell, Adelaide! What did ye get yourself into today!" Scottie sat back on her heels and wiped at her brow with a forearm. "You're dirtier than a crooked pope! We should just throw the likes o'you in the East River, what d'ye say to that?"

The spotted dog looked up with hesitancy, tilting her head to the side in an attempt to understand the words. Concluding that she was dismissed from the bath water, she stood on all fours and, before anyone could protest, shook her entire body to dry. The action was met with disgruntled yelps, and the dog deemed it a proper time to vault over the edge of the basin and dash out the room. Wet paw prints were left behind on the hardwood floor.

"Feckin' loon," Scottie muttered, drying herself with a hand towel from the shelves the Sisters of St. Agnes daily replenished.

She exited into the neighboring bedroom where she lowered herself onto her unmade bed. She wasn't the tidiest of girls. She'd grown accustomed over time to packing up and leaving whenever it was needed. She was constantly on the move, and she preferred it that way. Unpacking the trunk below her bed would imply she felt a certain attachment to St. Adelaide's, that she was prepared for a little bit of permanence in her life. She wasn't. She couldn't even hold on to a job for more than three months. She had her Scottish temper to blame for this, of course, but a part of her felt as if she might've been chronically sabotaging herself too. Maybe she didn't want a steady job. Maybe she wanted a reason to return to her homeland.

"I personally think it was nice of him to oblige Keile." It was Jessica 'Magic' Carras who spoke, returning the conversation to its previous topic. She was one of the oldest at the Home, having turned eighteen six months ago. She was also the tallest at five-foot-seven. Her nickname was a relic from another livelihood, a time when she'd been a magician's assistant. She counted it as the source of some of her best memories. How she'd loved the stage, the gasps of an awe-struck audience, their delighted applause for an act's resolution. She'd loved the costumes, the trickery, the staged banter.

Her black curls, pale skin, and light blue eyes were arranged in such a way as to make her seem bookish. Shy and reserved. She supposed in some respects those traits suited her, but whenever she assumed the stage, she could be someone different entirely. A mystical caricature of herself. Those days were over, though. The theatre where she'd nightly perform had been lost in a fire last November with no hopes of being rebuilt. She eventually found work in a bookstore, where the mundanity drove her mad.

"But he's a newsie! A filthy little cretin, the Lord help us. Who knows where his hands've been!" Scottie's features were angular, and whenever she was riled up about something, she looked the part of a fuming devil. The red hair furthered the image.

Prince Saunders sighed from her bed. She had been resting against the headboard, long legs stretched out on the mattress before her as she leafed through a book about Ireland. She wasn't Irish herself, nor had she ever visited the place. When she was a child, though, her father had hired an Irish woman as their housekeeper, a kind soul named Milly. Milly had helped bring happiness into a life that, back then, was rocked with emptiness.

There was a second book on her nightstand, this one about music. It was covered under St. Agnes stationary, cloth napkins, the morning edition of the _Brooklyn Eagle_, and a plate of asparagus. She wasn't ready to open that book quite yet. It would harbor too many memories. Memories about her mother, the woman who'd taught her how to play the piano and how to love life. She hadn't seen her mother in five years. She pretended to not remember much about the woman's disappearance, but it was always like a nightmare from which she'd just awoken.

It had been a Sunday. She'd fallen asleep the night prior to the dissonance of her parents yelling at each other. It was a maid who shook her awake the next morning. She'd already slept through church; the least she could do was prepare herself for a late breakfast. Refreshed and donned in her Sunday best, she searched the house for her mother and father. The only thing she discovered was an opened envelope on the dining room table.

Her mother's goodbye.

"Newsies aren't all that bad, Scottie," she said then, pulling away from the flashback. She closed her Ireland book and set it upon her lap. "They have strong character. They're…tenacious. Don't you remember last summer's strike? Who would've imagined that? A group of boys with hardly any money coming together for a common cause. Publishing their own paper to expose…people who were doing wrong." Her voice grew quiet at the last few words.

"I agree," Magic said, oblivious to Prince's changed expression. "We've always been told to keep away from them and avoid them at all costs, but every newsboy I've ever come across has been nothing but a sweetheart."

Scottie laughed at their arguments. She had a boisterous laugh. She'd throw back her head and her body would shake with each chuckle. "Well color me purple, it looks like a lass or two under this roof might be smitten! Let me tell something to the both o'ye, eh? Boys are good for but two things: being used for hard work, and being used as punchin' bags. Remember that, and your life will be aces."

Prince and Magic exchanged a look before rolling their eyes with amused smiles.

---------------

Runner had the distinct feeling that he should be planning his funeral. His cousin was incensed. Spot had a short temper to begin with; it was the Irish in him. The both of them had descended from the lowest and most depraved of men ever to walk Five Points, Manhattan--though this, as with other things, had never been discussed at the Conlon dining table. It was shelved in the closet with all the other skeletons that made a mockery of their namesake.

Spot had never felt shame because of it. If anything, it stroked his ego all the more. He had murderers and thieves and anarchists in his ancestry. His grandfather and a fraction of his uncles--all now deceased--had shed blood as members of the notorious gang, _The Dead Rabbits_. A silly name to outsiders, but the Irish knew that 'rabbit' was a phonetic corruption of _ráibéad_. It meant 'man to be feared'. _Greatly _feared, when the intensifier 'dead' was in front.

There had always been speculation as to whether Spot would follow in the footsteps of his forefathers. Many wondered if he'd resurrect the olden days. Though the Old Brewery where many a rabbit had lived was demolished in 1852, there were always whisperings that the gang would live on. Everyone knew a twelve hour workday at some factory would be in Spot's estimation the equivalent of giving in; giving in to the system, to the lousy government that benefited from his sweat, to the bland definition of a proper working man. It was perhaps why he stalled from renouncing his hold over Brooklyn. He didn't know where to go from here.

Runner could see him heading up an offshoot of the Dead Rabbits. It scared him. Spot's bark and bite were renown throughout the lower class of New York. Runner remembered his cousin's reaction to the news that Jack Kelly, loving leader of Manhattan's fold, had turned scab during the Newsboys Strike of 1899. It had taken nearly a dozen boys to hold Spot back from getting his hands dirty. They'd all seen the venom in his eyes. They saw it nearly every day. Spot never backed down from a fight. He never lost one, either.

It was times like these when Runner felt nostalgia for his sheltered upbringing. Back in Morningside Heights, he didn't have to worry about territory wars or vengeful, power-hungry newsboys. He'd chased after his cousin because he'd wanted the adventure, because he'd had some romantic idea of the hard-knock life. There weren't any rules or authorities to answer to. He didn't have to worry about schoolwork, or his father's insistence that he attend Dartmouth College. He didn't have to worry about table manners, marrying into an honorable family, or which utensils to use for which meal.

Still, there would always be that feeling that he didn't belong in Brooklyn.

As for Spot, it seemed like his birthright. Had Spot remained with his mother, he would've eventually wound up on the streets. She'd been killed a year after he left, left in the back of a filthy alley, stab wounds bleeding through her cheap garments. Runner's parents had seen the story buried in the _Brooklyn Eagle_ but hadn't said a word to their nephew. It was for the best, Runner had overheard them say in the privacy of the downstairs study.

Runner swiped the cap from his head and fanned himself as he hurried on his way. The heat was stifling and his feet were aching, but he welcomed both nuisances as long as he didn't have to be in his cousin's company. He returned the hat to his head. It was bad enough Runner hadn't been afforded a chance to clean up the lodging house before Spot's return. Happening upon bunk beds crawling with ants and floors covered in shaving cream and honey probably hadn't been the best homecoming.

When the Brooklyn leader had entered the lodging house (and he always knew how to make an entrance--he had an affinity for yanking open both doors if possible, as if slipping through one wasn't good enough for him), the racket inside slid to deathly silence. His face was unreadable. He scanned the room with a steady cyan gaze, looking for someone. No one dared cast a look toward the young woman at his side. Though she didn't at all resemble Spot's usual choice in company, one could never be too sure. Crossing Spot Conlon would put you on the fast track to the mortician's.

"Where is 'e?" Spot's voice was low. Menacing. Each syllable was emphasized, almost accessorized with a threat. Spot expected answers immediately following his questions. Sometimes he expected them before he'd even voiced the question.

It took nearly ten minutes to summon Runner, who was halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge at that point, but when he'd finally retuned, the two cousins had exchanged their news. Spot had three children who needed finding by dusk, and his intentions were to use his Birds. He imagined they'd hone in on a location in roughly an hour. Two maximum. Runner nodded along absentmindedly, occasionally stealing a glance in Air's direction, and then to the window of Spot's room, which framed a breathtaking view of the East River.

All he could think about was catching sight of Cobra and his lackeys.

He'd blurted it out. It's what he usually did when his nerves were twisted in knots inside him. He told himself it wasn't fear of Spot that drove him whenever he felt anxious. It was the fear of ruining what Spot had spent years building for himself. He went on about Queens, about Cobra's presumptuous words, about his own silence. He'd assured Spot that he'd taken preventative measures. The Birds had their eyes wide open up north. One suspicious move on Cobra's part, and Brooklyn would know about it.

Spot said nothing at first, but Runner could see the calculations in his eyes. Counting his own newsies against those of Queens. Measuring their strengths and weaknesses as if on a scale. Finally, he'd dismissed Runner, and just as the younger had stepped foot in the hallway, the leader had called that ominous order out.

"You'll stay the night at Adelaide's. I'll have the girl escorted back tonight."

Runner had opened his mouth to protest, but had promptly closed it at Spot's 'try me' expression.

"And that's why, ladies and gentlemen, he finds himself in Fort Greene!" Runner extended his arms toward the tree-lined, cobblestone-paved stretch of road known as Lafayette Avenue. Continuing on his way, he expertly snitched an apple from a passing cart, spat on it to clean the ruby flesh, and then took a large bite from the fruit. He always found this neighborhood to be among Brooklyn's most endearing. The Brooklyn Academy of Music was here. So was the 30-acre Fort Greene Park, with its chestnut trees and sun-kissed grassy landscapes. The place was simply heaven. A quiet little town captured inside a snow globe unknowingly.

He smiled into his next bite and averted his eyes to the numbers on the neighboring buildings. 1724. 1720. 1716. He stopped and turned fully, taking in the building for the first time. St. Adelaide's Home for Girls. It was inviting. Well kept, too. He noticed a robin cleaning itself in a bird bath out front the building.

"Move it, rat!"

Runner leapt forward, missing only by seconds being trampled over by a horse carriage. The carriage's driver turned around, shaking a raised fist at the boy, but he only rolled his eyes and took another casual bite of his apple.

"Muckety-muck." He shook his head and started for the building's stoop, but stopped suddenly when he saw the girl sitting on the steps.

Her hair was brown like caramel. The wavy tresses were collected with a thick red ribbon, and tumbled over the front of her right shoulder. Some pieces fell across her forehead, sliding across the smooth contours of her cheeks and nose, but she didn't make an effort to brush them away. She simply continued to work. Runner noticed that her eyes were downcast, and that her dark lashes cast spidery shadows across her skin.

He followed her line of sight and saw that she steadied a drawing pad on her lap. One hand, the fingers blackening, gripped a piece of charcoal and diligently maneuvered it across the page. That's when Runner saw the lady bug just two steps down from the girl. The current subject for this would-be artist's masterpiece.

"She been stayin' still long?"

Like a bunny caught off guard by its prey, the girl bolted straight up to her feet with a sharp gasp, charcoal and drawing pad tumbling down the stoop. The ladybug fluttered away. The girl put a hand to her heart, pink now pooling her cheeks.

"I beg your pardon?"

Runner thought her voice sounded airy; melodic. He held up his hands to show he meant no harm, and then slowly leaned forward to collect her fallen items before extending them to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give ya the fights or not'n."

Her hazel eyes rolled to where the ladybug had been. She seemed saddened by her inability to complete the sketch more than anything else, aside from being frightened half to death by Runner's sudden intrusion. Though she was a few steps above him, he could tell she was as petite as they came for her age. Probably two inches short of five feet.

Remembering his manners, he took off his cap and held it to his chest. "I'm, ah, Runner. Well, Lucas really. Lucas Conlon. Spot's cousin? Y'know, he's watchin' over Adelaide's while Keile's away?"

The girl nodded. Yes, she'd heard snippets of such news in the washroom. Scottie hadn't been too impressed with him, and Prince had nothing to contribute other than Spot's apparent dislike for dogs.

"Oh." She finally reached out to accept her artist tools from Runner, and then hugged them to herself. She spoke with her eyes on her feet. She wasn't opposed to making acquaintances but it had never been an easy task for her. She wasn't like some of the other girls, who socialized like it was their second nature. "People call me Juni."

Runner smirked at her coyness. Carefully, he ascended one step and then another, closing the distance between them. "So Spot left me on duty tonight."

"Oh, I see." She reached up to fuss with her hair, almost as if checking that it was still at her shoulder. "Well, I'll introduce you to the others, then?" She glanced up just long enough to meet his eyes, and then turned toward the door, pushing it in.

Runner bit down on his bottom lip to keep himself from grinning. This change in plan wasn't all that bad after all.

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**Prince: **Thanks for the review! Fortunately, inspiration has hit me sooner, so that's always good! I'm glad the story is still coming across strong. Hopefully it'll stay like that throughout! Ah yes, Runner's a goofball, you gotta love him haha. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Betchya: **Yes I did use your characters! And I used yet another in this chapter, too! I hope I'm portraying them well enough! Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

**Juni: **Thanks for submitting a character! I'm glad the story's pulled you in, and I can't wait to see how everyone meshes together, either! There's definitely a lot of personalities flowing around, eh?? Oh, and can you leave your email in your next review so I can add you to my Adelaide email list? Lol, thanks! And I hope you enjoyed your cameo ; )

**Pegasus M: **Hey, thanks for stopping by and reading this baby! And a big thanks for reviewing each chapter along the way haha, I always appreciate when a reader does that. I'm glad you're so tickled by the story, and many thanks for the compliments. Runner is a doll, isn't he? I'm glad he's an enjoyable character! Well I hope you enjoyed this chapter!What kind of dogs do you have by the way? Adelaide is modeled after the antics of my own dogs, who are such goofballs!

**Cheetah: **Thanks so much for the review! I'm glad to have you on board! You will be making an appearance next chapter, m'dear! I already have it all planned out tehe, so I hope you're excited! : )

**Sparks: **Thanks so much for checking out the story! And thanks for sending in a profile! I'm OCD when it comes to grammar haha, it seriously irks me when I've made a mistake so hopefully these chapters will be clean of errors, though I did pick up on a mistake in chapter 5...oops! :P Anyway, glad to have you on board! P.S. Can you leave your email in your next review so I can add you to my Adelaide email list? lol

**Review review review review review review! **


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